And that makes Garrett a little too eager to force an ugly
confrontation. He forms fists.
You really don’t want to do that, says Gabe, pushing him out of the bedroom, into the hall.
Monica and Syrah hustle out
of the way. Keith, who’s drunk
enough to get brave, steps closer.
Who the hell are you, anyway?
says Garrett, obviously fortified.
I don’t answer to pansy-ass jerk-offs.
Gabe draws himself up, maximizing both height and menace. I’m Ariel’s friend. Friends don’t let friends get raped.
Garrett glances at Keith, who
nods. What’re you gonna do?
asks Garrett. Take both of us on?
Yeah, dickwad, agrees Keith, moving into position on the opposite side of Gabe. You don’t want to do that.
Gabe Sizes Up the Situation
There are two of them,
yes. But they’re wasted,
and I think he senses
that neither is a true threat, at least not on his own.
Still, there are two of them.
Look, I really don’t want to hurt you, no matter how much you deserve it. Why don’t you tuck your teensy pecker back into your pants and get the hell out of here? He takes a step toward Garrett, who’s too dense to
understand what that means,
though he does make sure his pants are zipped. Ooh. I’m so scared.
Come and get me, asshole.
Gabe doesn’t hesitate. He swings a fist straight into Keith’s gut, doubling him over. That enrages Garrett, who wades into Gabe.
That proves to be a huge mistake.
Up Close
Isn’t how you want to observe
a fistfight. Garrett manages to land a punch or two, but this is no contest.
I’m not two feet away from Gabe.
and I can see his eyes glaze over, as if he’s vacating this dimension.
He steps into Garrett and as I watch, I swear he morphs into something
just this side of human, a boxing machine, like those kids’ robots, only full size. Bam, bam, bam! Three straight to the face, and the sound of knuckles connecting to flesh and the bone
beneath makes me wobble. I’ve heard it before, only last time it was Dad’s fist, and the person he was pounding was a woman. Like she did then,
Garrett now lowers his hands, defeated.
And like Dad then, Gabe isn’t finished, throwing a flurry of impressive blows that drop Garrett all the way to the floor, blood and snot pouring from his nose.
The coppery smell gags me, but I manage to choke back the impending vomit.
Meanwhile, Keith has found breath and regained some strength. Stupidly, he ducks his head and charges Gabe, who dances to one side. Keith loses his balance, slips, and bashes his skull against the wall, and Gabe advances.
“Stop!” I yell. “Enough! God, do you want to kill them? Please, just leave them alone. They’re finished, can’t you see that?” I’m shriveling. Shrinking.
Folding up into myself, stumbling backward. I’m a sniveling ten-year-old again, pleading with someone I thought I knew to dig down for his humanity, find mercy, and end the carnage.
It doesn’t matter that he’s doing this to defend me. It’s savage.
I actually feel sorry for Garrett.
Gabe stops, straightens, but when he turns and looks at me, I find
something terrible in his eyes—
satisfaction.
He Bends Over
Careful
to avoid the bodily
fluids on the floor,
lifts Garrett to his feet by the back of his shirt.
Never assume a stranger is a pansy-ass jerk-off.
How about I call you a taxi?
You’re in no condition to drive.
Fuck you, shithead.
Garrett does his best
to shake it off. He points at me. You good with this, bitch?
Gabe leans closer.
That’s no way to talk to a lady. I suggest you apologize. You too, he says to Keith,
who’s struggling
to get up on his feet.
The guys must’ve read
the pleasure factor
in Gabe’s eyes,
because both mutter
halfhearted apologies
before limping away.
Still, they refuse to accept complete
defeat, extending middle fingers before vanishing into the dark of night.
Monica rushes to my side.
?Estás bien? ?Que pasó?
I reach for her, and
discover how badly
I’m shaking. “I’m okay,”
I lie, falling into her arms.
“Garrett thought I should prove whether I’m into guys or girls.”
What? For real? Did he . . .?
“No, thanks to Gabe.
But he would have.
At least, I think so.”
Do you want to call the cops?
asks Gabe. You probably should.
“And tell them what?
Nothing happened?
And even if it had,
they’d write it off as drunk kids getting carried away.”
What I Hold Very Close
Unable to share, even with these, my best and only friends, is that I don’t dare call the cops.
Ever.
My dad’s programmed that into me for as long as I can remember.
Why?
I have no clue.
All I know is it’s near the top of his rules list, just below “Don’t question me.”
Ever.
Once, when he left me with Ma-maw and Pops, he drilled into me that should flashing red and blue lights ever appear on the horizon, I was to dash out into the alfalfa fields.
Hide.